What Happened to the Bennetts
Lisa Scottoline
They’re all for Francesca, with lots of love
PART ONE
Nothing good gets away.
—John Steinbeck’s letter to his son Thom, 1958
Chapter One
I glanced in my rearview mirror at the pickup truck, which was riding my bumper. I hated tailgaters, especially with my family in the car, but nothing could ruin my good mood. My daughter’s field hockey team had just beat Radnor, and Allison had scored a goal. She was texting in the back seat, one of a generation that makes better use of opposable thumbs than any prior.
My son Ethan turned around next to her, shielding his eyes against the pickup’s headlights. “Dad, what’s up with this guy?”
“God knows. Ignore him.”
“Why don’t you go faster?” Ethan shifted, waking up Moonie, our little white mutt, who started jumping around in the back seat. I love the dog but he has two speeds: Asleep and Annoying.
“Why should I? I’m going the limit.”
“But we can smoke this guy now.”
We had just gotten a new car, a Mercedes E-Class Sedan in a white enamel that gleamed like dental veneers. Ethan said the E stood for his name, but I said Exorbitant. My wife and kids had lobbied for the car, but I felt like a show-off behind the wheel. I missed my old Explorer, which I didn’t need a tie to drive.
“Dad, when I get my license, I’m gonna burn guys like him.”
I heard this once a week. My son counted the days until his learner’s permit, even though he was only thirteen. I said, “No, you’re not. You’re gonna let him pass.”
“Why?”
“We have a right to enjoy the drive.”
“But it’s boring.”
“Not to me. I’m a scenic-route kind of guy.” I moved over to let the pickup pass, since Coldstream Road was a single lane winding uphill through the woods. We were entering the Lagersen Tract, the last parcel of woodland preserved by Chester County, where Nature had to be zoned for her own protection.
I lowered the window and breathed in a lungful of fresh, piney air. Thick trees flanked the road, and scrub brush grew over the guardrails. Crickets and tree frogs croaked a chorus from my childhood. I grew up on a dairy farm in Hershey, home of the famous chocolate manufacturer. I loved living in a company town, where the air smelled of sweet cocoa and corporate largesse. Everyone worked toward the same goal, even if it was capitalism.
“He’s not passing us,” Ethan said, bringing me out of my reverie.
I checked the rearview mirror, squinting against the headlights. Moonie was facing backward, his front paws on the back seat and his ears silhouetted like wispy triangles.
“Come on, Dad. Show ’em who’s boss.”
“That’s well-established,” I said. “Mom.”
Lucinda was in the passenger seat, the curve of her smile illuminated by the phone screen. She was a natural beauty, with gray-blue eyes, a small nose, and dark blond hair gathered into a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She had been on Facebook since we’d left the school, posting game photos and comments. Great save by Arielle!!! Lady Patriots rock!!! Woohoo, Emily is MVP!!! My wife never uses fewer than three exclamation marks on social. If you only get one, you’ve done something wrong. Or as my father would say, You’re in the doghouse.
Lucinda looked over. “Jason, speed up, would you?”
“You, too? What’s the hurry?”
“They have homework.”
“On Friday night? Have you met our kids?”
Lucinda smiled, shaking her head. “Whatever, Scenic-Route Kind of Guy.”
“Aw, I feel so seen.”
Lucinda laughed, which made me happy. I love my wife. We met at Bucknell, where she was an art major and I was a work-study jock slinging mac and cheese in the dining hall, wearing a hairnet, no less. She could’ve had her pick, but I made her laugh. Also she loves mac and cheese.
“Dad, listen to this.” Allison looked up, her thumbs still flying. She could text without looking at the keyboard, which she called her superpower. “My friends just voted you Hottest Dad.”
I smiled. “They’re absolutely right. There’s a reason I was Homecoming King.”
“Dude, no. Never say that again.” Allison snorted, texting. “We don’t even have that anymore.”
Lucinda rolled her eyes. “Allison, who came in second?”
I added, “Yeah, what troll came in second?”
Allison kept texting. “Brianna M’s dad.”
I scoffed. “Ron McKinney? Please, no contest. I got the bubble butt.”
Allison smiled. “Stop it!”
“I bet I can twerk, Al. Show you when we get home.”
“Nobody twerks anymore.” Allison snorted again, texting away. “OMG, they’re saying you look like Kyle Chandler.”
“Who’s that?”
“The dad from Friday Night Lights. We watched it together. You remember. Also the dad in Bloodline.”
“What’s that?”
“A show on Netflix.”
“Never saw it.”